


Rock Your Bodyguard

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Animal Death, Ed-level cursing, Glitter, M/M, Rating May Change, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6040804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Elric wasn't expecting an especially pleasant job after his last assignment as a bodyguard went pear-shaped, but—</p><p>A <i>pop star?</i></p><p>And as if the degrading position weren't enough, world-famous pop idol Roy Mustang seems to have a complete and utter disregard for his safety as long as he gets to have <i>fun.</i></p><p>(Or, the AU in which Ed is a cranky bodyguard, Roy is a loud exhibitionist, and Ed will <i>never</i> get the glitter out of his suits.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostberg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostberg/gifts).



> This was inspired by Obersten's [Manboy AU;](http://obersten.tumblr.com/tagged/manboy-au) please go look at the art I swear you won't regret it.
> 
> Also, chapter one is up for his birthday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BERG.
> 
> Giant thank you to Grandadmiral for being the Roy to my Ed (and writing out his dialogue with me) and Verbosewordsmith for her knowledge of all things bandom.

Ed stared down at the file in his hand, doing his best to keep his expression neutral as he read through the assignment.  He wasn’t very good at it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he gritted out.  Ling just smiled pleasantly.

“I would never kid with you, Edward.  I think this will be a good fit—“

Ed closed the folder with a snap.  “A fuckin’ pop star?”

“Not just  _ any _ pop star,” Ling chided gently, though there was a tiny bit of a smirk on his lips.  “ _ Manboy Mustang. _ ”

“Pop garbage.”

Ling tsked.  “I’ve been needing to get a better foothold in the entertainment industry, and this is my chance.”  His pleasant smile took on a dangerous edge, a gleam in his eye.  “So don’t  _ fuck _ this up.”

The words stung, and he couldn’t keep from flinching back slightly at the rest that was left unspoken.

“Is this punishment?” Ed gritted out, automail hand clenched tightly.  “For what happened last time?”

“No.”  Ling’s voice and gaze were level.  “I told you.  I think this will be a good fit.”

For a fuck-up, he means.  Bullshit.  Ed’s psych evaluations certified him as  _ fine _ for the more dangerous work he was used to.  He had made sure of that.

But Ling left him no room to argue.

“Fine,” he snapped, clutching the folder and whirling to storm out.

“Be packed by Sunday!” Ling called cheerfully after him.  “We’re flying you out that evening!”

—

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Elric.”

Riza Hawkeye seemed like a very reasonable woman, and Ed did feel some relief that she was in charge.  He had already spotted several vulnerabilities in security, and he had no doubt that she would be amiable in helping to rectify them.

It was the main part of his job, jogging up now, that would be the biggest problem.

“Roy, there you are.  This is Edward Elric.  He’ll be your bodyguard from now on.”

Ed extended his hand, gloved to cover the automail, and it was like someone had flicked a switch to turn Mustang’s charm  _ instantly _ on.

“Pleasure,” he said with a grin as he shook.

Roy Mustang—or, Manboy Mustang, as many of the press and gossip magazines and what the fuck ever had dubbed him after his debut smash hit “Manboy” had broken records worldwide (knowledge that Ed had gained years ago through osmosis despite his best efforts to the contrary)—was just about everything Ed had expected.

His royal blue button down was very much unbuttoned, revealing a toned chest and stomach, the Japanese character for luck—Ed was pretty sure; his kanji was rusty—tattooed over his heart.  Another tattoo, this one a watercolor branch of cherry blossoms, ran down the left side of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.  Anyone else, Ed might have rolled his eyes, but the file he had read had mentioned Japanese ancestry, so he guessed that made it a little less ridiculous.  Little bit.

Ed continued his assessment.  Two earrings in the left earlobe, one in the right.  His black hair looked soft and slightly tousled, and the grin on his charming face was  _ clearly _ tailored specifically to make whoever was the focus feel like they were the center of the universe.  Ed was too savvy to fall for it, of course; but it screamed trouble.

When Ed’s gaze slid from one arched, perfectly-shaped eyebrow—did Mustang wax them?—to the rest of his face, he spotted a fake beauty mark below Mustang’s left eye.  Christ.  A lock of bangs dyed a gradient red-orange-yellow swooped across one half of his face, framing it flatteringly.

And there was fucking glitter  _ everywhere. _

Seriously, did the man sweat it?   Because that was the only explanation, with the way that it coated his chest, threaded through his hair, shimmered over his shirt and arms and—

“He’ll be with you at all times,” Riza continued, and Ed quickly pulled his hand away, clasping both of them behind his back.  “Try not to cause trouble for him, Roy.”  The exasperated tone in Riza’s voice did  _ not _ bode well for Ed.

Mustang waved his hand dismissively, an easy smile on his face.  “I’m never trouble.”

Riza snorted.  So did Ed.  He couldn’t resist a small eye roll, either.

Mustang, of course, glanced between the two of them, pouting in a way that Ed had the feeling got Mustang his way very frequently.  “What?”

Riza shrugged, and Ed shook his head, very much,  _ I didn’t say anything. _  Mustang sighed, flipping his hair, tousling the flame streak.

“I’m not a problem,” he said, before walking—almost flouncing—away.

Ed exchanged a glance with Riza, and he could see the masked sympathy in her eyes.  The two of them followed.

“You got another letter from Barry,” Riza said, pulling out a bright red envelope and handing it to Mustang.  Ed scowled; he knew the name of the stalker they had mentioned in their application for a bodyguard, and they were letting Mustang  _ read _ the letters?

Seeing his face, Riza was quick to explain.  “Roy said that he wanted to see them.  I suggested burning them.”

Good thing they hadn’t.  Ed simply held his hand out for the letter, then skimmed over it.

He had seen worse, of course, but as far as written descriptions went, not by much.  The rhapsodizing about the way Mustang—though the stalker called him Roy—would feel under his knife and the explicit accuracy of the description left even his stomach turning as it conjured up uneasy memories, as well as told Ed that they were very likely dealing with someone who had killed before.

He pocketed it, and, when Riza told him she’d email him the rest, nodded, keeping his face neutral.  They already seemed cautious; no need to panic them.  “I’ll have the agency analyze them.”

When he looked up, Mustang was watching him curiously.  “We're concerned, because it seems like he knows my routine. We think he's been stalking us.”

Then their security  _ definitely _ needed a ramp-up.  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thank you.”  Mustang paused.  “Are you sure you’ll be able to?”

Ed shot him an irritated look.  Doubting him already.  “What?”

Mustang continued carefully.  “Are you going to be able to see over the crowd?”

Ed paused for a moment, then another, his brain trying to process— _ did he really just say that? _  When it determined that yes, in fact, he had, Ed straightened, shooting Mustang the nastiest look he had in his arsenal.

Mustang just smiled.  He  _ smiled _ , the fucker, looking sincere and glamorous with a smudge of glitter on his cheekbone.  “Everything okay?”

Ed managed to avoid snapping, though he kept his voice cool.  “I’m fine.”

Mustang nodded, turning to head towards the crew, who was packing up, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Riza put her face in her hands.

When he turned, however, she lifted it, then took a deep breath.  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two items.  The first, Ed recognized immediately.

“Earpiece.  It connects you to our security group.  You’ll meet Jean Havoc later.”

Ed nodded and slipped it on.

And the second…

“What is this?” he asked carefully.  If he was having this much trouble keeping his voice neutral already, he was very concerned that he wouldn’t be able to keep up Ling’s orders of “don’t fuck it up” for more than a week.

“Part of the branding,” she replied, utterly unsympathetic.  He might need to reevaluate his opinion of her.  “Everyone’s required to wear it in some way.  I thought a tie clip might be the best for you.”

Ed stared down at the clip—more specifically, down at the massive flaming “M” that decorated it.  Christ, could it be tackier?

“You’re not serious.”

“As a bullet,” she replied, eyes piercing his own.  “And I was told that you have a concealed permit?”

“Yeah, I carry.”

“Good.  So you should know how serious that is.”  She turned to go, paused, then turned back to him.  “And while I hope you don’t need it, I have a feeling that I’ll end up being grateful for it.”

—

Mustang at least, Ed noted, didn’t leave all of the grunt work to his crew.  He was performing that evening, and he still pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants and helped them set up.  While it didn’t make Ed’s job especially easier, it gave him a chance to get a good sense of the layout of the venue, the weaknesses in security—of which there were a lot—and anyone who might be suspicious.  Mustang pointed out a few people as he worked, smirking a little at the way Ed crossed his arms and looked solemn as he kept an eye out.

“So how long have you been bodyguarding?”

Ed glanced over at the cheerful question, narrowing his eyes and trying to gauge if there was any hint of doubt at his abilities in it.  But then, Mustang did appear to be rather good at appearing innocuous.  Ed wasn’t sure he bought that cheery act whatsoever.

“Since I was eighteen,” he settled for.

“And how long is that?”

“A while.”

“Uh huh.”  Mustang’s eyes twinkled a bit, and Ed could feel the familiar bristling sensation.  “And who have you been bodyguarding?”

“A lot of that is confidential.”  Ed didn’t manage to keep from snapping that one.  Mustang  _ had _ been informed that Yao’s Bodyguarding services  _ prided _ itself on its confidentiality; of course Ed couldn’t release that information.  Of course, that was assuming that Mustang had even bothered reading the paperwork involved.  His question made more sense if that was the case.

“I’m fairly certain I deserve a résumé.”

And Ed was pretty fucking sure he fucking deserved to be taken seriously.  At this point, he wasn’t sure if he was thinking about Mustang or Ling.

Probably both.

“I spent a year in Los Angeles, one in Sweden, a couple of other places, and the last three years of work in the Congo.”  And then… after, but Mustang didn’t need to know that.  “Good enough for you?”

“Interesting.”  Mustang lifted a box full of sound equipment, and Ed caught himself glaring.  He should at  _ least _ be physically weak; he wasn’t sure how Mustang managed to keep in shape with all that prancing around.  Or maybe the prancing was what did it.  “We go all over the world.”

“As long as it’s not the fucking Congo.”  Ed couldn’t stop himself from muttering it as he glanced around the room, then winced, just a little.  He should know better.

“I don’t think so.  You could check the back of the tour shirts.”

Ed looked back over at him, squinting suspiciously.  Was he being cheeky, or was he just that oblivious?

“I’ll check later,” he finally said, settling back to watch some more.

—

While he knew that there were thousands, hundreds of thousands, probably  _ millions _ of people who would kill to be in his position—bad choice of words, probably, but whatever—the only thing it did for him was send his irritation levels skyrocketing.

He cased the crowd a bit as it grew, but it quickly became far too packed to do so—how the fuck was he supposed to handle forty thousand people?  Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ.  Still, he insisted on staying as close as possible for as long as he could, despite the growing oppression of the noise that left him gritting his teeth and sweating, and every time a particularly loud scream or instrument blasted, he jumped, his heart giving an unpleasant jolt until he remembered where he was.

He made it through one song of the third opening band—the fuck kind of name was “Greed and the Chimeras,” anyway?—before he met Jean Havoc, who took pity on him and handed him a set of earplugs that left him in blissful near-silence while still leaving him connected via earpiece.

And then Mustang went onstage.

Ed had to admit, the man could work a fucking crowd.  But more notably,  _ very  _ notably, Ed found himself wondering if he had just been fucked silly before coming out.  That couldn’t have been possible, though; he had  _ just  _ been with Mustang.

Right?

The first thing that Ed noticed about his performance: while the choreography was impressive, it was incredibly ridiculous.  Whatever happened to just singing?  Admittedly, it probably gave Mustang great breath control, but that was only a passing thought.

The second: he had it on very good authority that bras were quite expensive and had absolutely no idea why people were throwing them away onto the stage.

The third: there were way too fucking many puns.

And Ed sat through it all, watching the crowd carefully, as well as Mustang—for security purposes, of course.  Even if he had to put up with an eyeful of the way his hips gyrated, or thighs spread, or that motherfucking obnoxious hairflip.

He took a deep breath in through his mouth, then out through his nose.  He really,  _ really _ needed to stop getting so worked up about this.  He would only end up stressing himself and proving to Ling that he couldn’t do his job anymore if he let himself fall into getting pissed off at every breath Mustang took—every  _ glittering _ breath, now that his shirt had been unbuttoned and was dangling open again—nope, there it went completely, leaving Ed with a full view of the glitter-coated abdomen and tattoos.  He also had one on his right hip, a sketchy butterfly, and the cherry blossom he had noticed earlier apparently went down most of his shoulder.

And, when Mustang turned, ass waggling, he got a very good view of the watercolor tree, roots starting at his lower back, the fiery branches stretching up almost to his shoulderblades.

Roy Mustang had a fucking tramp stamp.

He sighed with annoyance, shaking his head, and watched as Mustang walked to the edge of the stage—and immediately straightened when he started giving high fives, and then—grabbed the wrist of a fan, and hoisted her onstage, assisted by her shrieking friends.

No.   _ No. _  Absolutely fucking not.  He started forward, white with fury.

And Havoc stopped him.

“Let me the fuck  _ go! _ ” he snarled, trying to wrench away, but Havoc grabbed him tightly with both hands.

“The chief won’t like it if you do.  Trust me, I get it, but we gotta put up with it or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Ed watched, still seething, as Mustang tugged another fan up—a young man this time, wearing nothing but a wet tank top, and there was already a third on stage.  Another young man, this one with a matching hair streak.  This was madness.  Fucking  _ madness. _  How the fuck was he supposed to protect someone who did  _ this, _ especially with a stalker and possible  _ murderer  _ out to get him?  Christ!

Mustang bent down to sweep up his leather jacket, which he had discarded earlier that evening, and wrap it around the girl, who looked a little cold in her sundress, but she was more dressed than anyone  _ else _ on that stage.  Still, she looked like she was about to swoon, and Ed couldn’t hear what she stood on her tiptoes and whispered in Mustang’s ear, but a moment later he had taken her face and they were kissing and Ed could hear the screaming even through his ear protection.

Unbelievable.  Un  _ fucking _ believable.  He tried to start forward again, but Havoc just gripped harder, and all Ed could do was watch, arms crossed, expression mutinous, as he turned to the hair-streaked fan, who was looking playfully put out, and kissed the hell out of him too.

Fuck, Mustang was in for an earful when Ed got ahold of him.

—

Ed spent the remainder of the concert, Mustang’s shower at the venue (now  _ that _ was something he wished he had been fucking warned about, and why the fuck did Mustang need to, anyway, with that water that had sprayed over him during that final number), and the walk back to the tour bus alternately fuming and plotting out  _ exactly _ how he was going to chew out Mustang’s ass—in the bad way—and subsequently every fucking person in charge of this joint for such a  _ blatant _ fucking security breach.

He had it all planned out, from the, “Mustang, we need to talk,” to “I am hired to  _ protect _ you,” to “You fucking  _ listen _ to me” and any arguments and counterarguments that Mustang might try to make.

Still, he had to sweep the bus first, though that shouldn’t be too…

When he reached the back room of Mustang’s bus, a small bedroom-esque area that had been set aside for him, he spotted an envelope, bright red, sitting on Roy’s pillow.

He picked it up with his gloved hand, sniffing it carefully for any sort of obvious contaminant, then opened it.

_ Your show was wonderful, Roy.  I loved it, like I do everything about you. _

_ You should be more careful, kissing girls and boys like that, though.  I’ll get jealous, and I might have to do something about them. _

_ Love, _

_ Barry. _


	2. Chapter 2

Ed took a deep breath, slipped the envelope in his pocket, and headed back outside.

“Havoc, I want a full security sweep of these buses, and I want it  _ now. _ ”

It was two hours of Ed, Havoc, and the security team thoroughly going over the buses and other vehicles before he deemed the measures satisfactory.  Though Ed didn’t make many friends among the crew, his demands for unpacking most of the vehicles earning him glares and mutters, better to make a couple of enemies than allow this fucker to stow away with the baggage.

The pictures included with the letter seemed to be fairly recent: Roy was wearing his outfit from yesterday, and Ed was in a couple of them, which gave Ed a rough window of when they were taken.  A glance at them told him that Barry had used a long-distance lens, which also gave Ed an idea of where, though a security detail dispatched to the area revealed nothing.  Still, it gave Ed a little bit of information on his setup, his strategies, and maybe the beginnings of insight into how he was getting around without being caught.  Ed’s first instinct had been that the security team had been made up of complete idiots, but after speaking with them, he could see that this wasn’t the case: they were simply unused to dealing with these kinds of extremes.  That was what Ed was here for.

“Can I sleep yet?”

Ed glanced over, the irritation simmering under his skin likely a result of the hours of work with little to show for it, and he tried, he really did, not to take it out on Mustang.  But Ed’s neutral expression only went so far, always had, and from the slightly alarmed look on Mustang’s face, Ed didn’t think he was hiding it too well.

Still, whining the question was probably not the best way to forestall Ed’s ire.

“Sure, yeah, let’s just stop for the night.”

Mustang’s shoulders began to relax, relief writing itself across his face, and Ed continued.  “And maybe tonight you’ll wake up with this Barry creep standing over you because we didn’t check everywhere.”

Mustang froze, then looked away, hunching his shoulders and looking sheepish.  And sad.  And  _ pathetic _ .  Now he had  _ Ed _ feeling bad, for what he had said.  Great.

Ed sighed deeply.  “Look, I promise, I’ll get you inside and in bed as soon as I can.  It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Mustang nodded, looking slightly less like a kicked puppy, but it didn’t make Ed feel like any less of an awful person.

And the fact that they found absolutely nothing didn’t help matters, either.

“Okay,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with his palms.  “We’re good.  Nothing, but better safe than sorry.”  He turned to Maria, one of the senior members of security who reported directly to Jean, and who Ed had borrowed while Havoc did his own job.  “You’ve got all the precautions I gave you, right?  You and Havoc start using those procedures immediately, and we’ll all be in better shape to find this guy.”

"What procedures are those?" Mustang asked as Maria walked off, and Ed glanced over, slightly surprised.  He hadn't expected him to actually care.

"Hiding places, establishing a perimeter, that sort of thing.  Not always possible with the way that your venues are set up, but I've seen pictures of the places you've been lately and the places you're going and I've tried to adapt usual methods to those."

"You're the real thing, aren't you?"  Mustang half-smiled, looking truly impressed.

Ed watched him, trying to figure out if any of it was sarcasm or begrudging, but no, Mustang seemed to truly be happy about that fact.  He also didn't seem to notice Ed's scrutiny, running his fingers through his drying hair and heading into the bus.

Bus.  Right.  Ed would have to give the driver some tips on defensive driving—nothing serious, of course, but in the event that anyone noticed a tail.  Though, he would likely be the only one who would... so that was another thing he would need to educate the security team on, especially those who were driving along in cars with actual rearview—

"Edward."

"Can call me Ed," he said automatically, before even realizing who had said it.  When he turned in the direction of the voice, he saw Riza and smiled crookedly.  "Not even my mom called me Edward."

"Ed, then."  Though subdued, her tone was warm, too—though Ed didn't worry as much about her sincerity, for some reason.  Must be the lack of fake beauty mark.  Idly, he wondered if Mustang had gotten the idea from Maria's, which was clearly natural...

"Is everything going to be all right?" Riza continued, voice low as she glanced around to ensure that no one else was within earshot.  "What was in that letter?  Was it especially bad?"

Silently, Ed pulled out the photos, showing them to her.  Riza's lips tightened.

"He's never done this before," she murmured.  "He must have been close to—"

"Long distance lens," he replied, just as quiet.  "We've found the spot, and we're tightening things up.  It shouldn't happen again."

"Thank you."  She took a deep breath, letting it out, looking a little more relieved at his assurances.  "I'm starting to worry about the effect it's having on Roy."

"He seemed to be all right."  Ed glanced at the door of the bus, through which Mustang had vanished a few moments before.  "Not too worried.  I suppose he doesn't let that sort of thing bother him."

Riza leaned back slightly, taking Ed in consideringly.  For a professional, he felt uncomfortably like his mother was sizing him up, trying to decide if he had done something wrong, taken that cookie when he shouldn't have.

Finally, she spoke, releasing Ed.

"He hides it well.  It might not seem like it bothers him, but it manifests in subtle ways."  She hesitated, then, "I know it's not your responsibility to keep an eye on things like this—though if you can, it would be appreciated—but he hasn't been eating much recently.  That sort of thing.  Hasn't been as cheerful."

"You want me to make sure he eats his vegetables, too?"  He hoped that his wry teasing tone was clear, and that it wasn't taken as offense at the suggestion, or at all condescending.  "I don't mind.  If he'll listen."

"'If' is the operative word, yes." She sighed.  "He is an adult, much as he doesn't act like it sometimes."  Though the words could have been harsh, Riza's tone was one of reluctant fondness, and though the friendship there was subtle, Ed had been around enough people to recognize that she would fight viciously to keep Mustang safe.  She glanced back over at Ed, smiling crookedly again.  It was a familiar expression; Ed wondered who had stolen it from whom.  "Thank you.  For what you're doing."

Ed nodded, then turned to follow Mustang onto the bus.

—

The driver, Heymans Breda, seemed to take his advice well, and clearly knew what he was doing.  When he mentioned that he worked with Havoc on security, and that both of them were former military, Ed felt himself relax slightly.  He actually believed Breda, when he said that both of them knew how to spot a tail, and Ed’s job would be that much easier.

When they were finished, Breda pointed towards the end of the bus.  “You’ll be back there.  Past the door.”

Ed took in the sight as he walked back, finally able to appreciate the decor now that he wasn’t on high alert.  The gorgeous interior was enough to make you forget that you were on a bus: a plush lounge area with suede tan armchairs and couches and a bar with tasteful lighting (though Ed privately thought the upholstery would have looked better in black).  Past that, UV light lit a bunk area, presumably for the rest of the crew, and Ed saw that some of the backup dancers had already retired the mattresses, reading by the light or otherwise entertaining themselves.  Havoc was knitting something in a dark green color, curled up against the wall on one of the top bunks and chatting with someone Ed recognized from the technical crew, a shorter young man with black hair and glasses.  He glanced up and waved at Ed when he passed, getting a nod in return.

He reached the door at the end and rapped on it.

“Come in!”

Ed opened the door and stepped through.  Mustang had changed to a pair of lounge pants and a ribbed tank that was thin enough that Ed could almost make out the tattoos underneath it.  All of them.  And there was glitter sparkling gently in the light, as well.  Some good that shower had done.  He was curled up on a luxurious bed, the royal blue covers shoved down halfway, the numerous pillows matching.  The sheets were a gold color, to match the headboard—more of a “headcushion”, upholstered with more suede—that spanned the back of the bus.

Ed had no idea what Mustang was worth, but it had to be obscene.

He could see the question in Mustang’s eyes, knew what he was about to ask, and was trying to think of a way to explain the scenario without terrifying him too badly when—

“Did you have fun?”

Ed opened his mouth, paused, closed it, blinked, opened it again.  “What?”

“The show.  Did you enjoy yourself?”

The show.  The  _ show. _  Right.  A whole other box of problems.  Might as well address them now.

“What the  _ hell _ was that?” he snapped.

Mustang’s pleasant smile faded, and he glanced around, as if looking for another target of Ed’s question.  “It was a show.  I put them on sometimes.  I  _ am _ an entertainer.”

Ed glared.  “I’ll say it a-goddamn-gain.  What the hell was that?  I mean,  _ other _ than a nightmare.  Could you have  _ left _ yourself more exposed?  Hovering over the crowd?  Dragging people onstage?  Aside from that being a massive fucking security and liability worry under  _ normal _ circumstances, we know he’s here, and I can’t protect you if you willfully put yourself in danger!”

Mustang just smirked.  He  _ smirked _ , the fucker.  “I’m not an idiot.  I normally walk around the crowd, as well,”—Ed about went into cardiac arrest right there.  The fucking  _ crowd? _ —“but we decided that might be too much.  I haven’t even been leaving the area for lunch or coffee.”  He shrugged, and Ed decided against breaking the news of Barry’s letter gently;a terrifying rendition of what had happened tonight might actually do this idiot some good.  “I’ve been running my assistants ragged, but I’m being safe.”

“You could have fooled me!” Ed hissed; though the thought of raising his voice was very tempting, he didn’t want to disturb everyone else on the bus.  More than he had to.  He might end up doing so before very long, he thought, the exasperation and disbelief mingling on top of the frustration to produce a dull ringing in his ears.

“Listen,” Mustang shot back, taking on a determined tone that spoke of an actual backbone—a very well-hidden one.  “If people notice too much change with the show, they’ll know something is wrong.”

“So, what, you’re a one trick pony?  Making out with anyone who might catch your fancy?  No other substance?  I’m sure you can figure something else out,” Ed snarled.  He idly thought that his words might be misconstrued, but right now, he didn’t care terribly much.  Still, Mustang set his jaw, narrowing his eyes, and Ed gritted his teeth for more argument.

“No, but fans like the way the shows are.  There are  _ certain _ things,” he continued, tone taking on one of annoyed superiority that was almost lecturing, “that you’re going to have to get comfortable with.”  He set the book down, standing and stretching with a fierce glare that had a level of hostility that Ed felt was  _ completely _ unwarranted.

Ed rolled his eyes hard enough that they began to ache.  “Fans probably like you the way you are, too.   _ Alive. _  It’s not about comfort, it’s about safety!  Once we get this stalker arrested, we can loosen up— _ some _ —but I was hired to keep you safe.”

“But it’s safer this way.  I control who I bring up.  People might rush the stage, otherwise.”

Ed gaped at him.  What the fuck kind of ass-backward logic was that.  “Then you need fucking better security!”

“You’re better security.”  Mustang breezed past Ed, heading for the door and stepping outside.

Ed followed.  “I’m one fucking person!”

“Yes, but you were hired to fix security issues.”

“And this is an issue that needs to be fixed.  Hold up.”  He turned.  “Havoc!”

Havoc blinked slowly at Ed’s sharp tone.  “You can call me Jean, boss.”  The slight drawl of a southern accent slipped its way into his speech, and he didn’t seem to be terribly impressed.

“Are you incapable of stopping people if they try to rush the stage?”

Jean furrowed his eyebrows.  “What?  ‘Course not.  We might be in a little over our head right now, but we ain’t idiots, or incompetent.”

Ed sighed, then headed on after Mustang, who had stepped behind the bar and was pouring what looked like whiskey.  “Did you hear that?  Now listen to what I’m saying.”

“Fine.  What do we need to do, then?  In ways that  _ won’t _ affect the shows.”

Ed took a deep breath, counting to five.  Mustang finished pouring his whiskey, putting it back, and then picked it up, heading back to the “bedroom.”

“I don’t think people should come onstage anymore.”

(Ed heard Havoc mutter something that sounded like, “Been telling him that for years.”)

“Why not?”

“He’s shown that he’s brazen enough to try something onstage!” Ed snapped as the door clicked shut behind them.

Mustang froze, facing the bed, not looking at Ed, and Ed wondered if the reality of the situation was actually starting to sink in.  After a moment, he nodded.

“What are you thinking he’d do?” he asked carefully as he climbed onto the bed, setting the whiskey glass on the bedside table after taking a sip.

“Any number of things.”

“Like what?  Give me an example.”

Pushy bastard.  “Like decides that he doesn’t want to compete for your attention.”

Mustang’s eyes went wide at that.  “What do you think he’d do if he didn’t?”

Ed snorted.  It was late, and he was cross, and he just wanted to sleep, not stand here and argue with a pop idol who treated a threat to his life more like a spectacle than a concern.  “He talks about how he likes to chop up and stab things.  Use your fucking imagination.  You might not be reachable, but what about that girl you gave your jacket?”  Ed stared him down mercilessly.  Mustang’s shoulders drooped a little.

“I suppose.”  He sighed.

“I’m here to fix holes in security.  That’s what I’m going to do.”

Mustang swallowed, then nodded.  “I know.  I want this to be over.”  He glanced up.  “You’re acting even more uptight than usual.  All of this, it’s because of something in the letter, isn’t it?  He said something.”

Ed snorted, opening his mouth to argue about the “uptight” bit, but then thought better of it and closed it again.  Christ, this guy managed to make him forget that he was a professional faster than breathing.

“Yes.”

“Can I read it?”

Ed hesitated.  “Are you sure you want to?”

“I’m sure.”

With a sigh, Ed withdrew the letter from inside his jacket and handed it over to Mustang, whose face immediately went pale.

“He’s never taken pictures before,” he murmured in a small voice.

“I know.  And I’m  _ going _ to stop it from happening again.  I can promise you that.”

Mustang took a deep breath, then nodded again.  “We… we assumed he was following the show.  This just proves it.  I asked them to search for names that appear multiple times in ticket purchases, but that obviously didn’t pan out.  No surprises there, I guess.”

Ed blinked.  Well, he’d admit that was a fairly clever move he hadn’t expected Mustang to take, though it had been on his own list as soon as he had figured out the situation.  He nodded and stepped over to sit in a plush armchair tucked in the corner of the room.

“Easy enough to use a fake name.  Did they check credit card names too?  And what percentage of your ticket sales are cash?”

“No, we don’t have access to that information, and the venues can’t give it to us, either.  We just have the names people put down for tickets.”  Mustang picked up the glass, sipping on the whiskey.  “And as for cash, quite a few people, I’m sure.  Teenagers who save their allowance—there are a lot of those.  Or people who get cash because they’re drunk and don’t trust themselves with their cards.  Stuff like that.”

“Mm.”  Ed’s disapproving tone was directed not at Mustang, but at the lack of results.  They really had already taken steps in a good direction; all Ed had to do now was keep directing them that way.  “I’ll contact them about security feeds.  Maybe we’ll spot something.  Might give us an idea of who to keep an eye out for.”

He couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at the grateful expression on Mustang’s face, especially since it was directed at Ed.  He had been plenty curt this evening, and though he wasn’t exactly apologetic, he didn’t seem to be getting under Mustang’s skin.

“Anyway.  That’s for tomorrow.  I should probably get to bed.”  Ed felt the rumble as the bus started up.  “I’m guessing we’ll be driving all night?”

“Yeah.  It might be rough, your first couple of days, but you get used to it.”

Ed swallowed, uncomfortable memories—oppressive heat and stickiness, dirt underneath his head, anxiety pooling in his gut as he wondered if he would wake up the next morning—creeping forward from the back of his mind.  He shoved them away.  “I’ve slept worse places, I’m sure.”

Mustang let out a soft chuckle.  “Please.  I’m not going to make you sleep somewhere  _ horrible. _ ”  He gestured at the room.  “For mobile accommodations, they’re pretty good.”

Ed forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Was Mustang saying what Ed thought he was saying?  He stared at the bed.  It was  _ fairly _ large, probably a queen size, and could technically fit two people—but the thought of sleeping in the same bed as him, with his... his wet hair, and his see-through tank, and his goddamn glitter  _ everywhere _ left him frozen.

Mustang, apparently unaware of Ed’s internal dilemma, set the glass down, then bent over to reach for something under the bed.  His shirt rode up to midback, Ed noted with distress, revealing the tattoo.  Didn’t he have any decency?  He wanted to snap at Mustang to pull his fucking pants up, but even he wasn’t that unprofessional.  Instead, he stared—glared.   _ Glared. _  Very angrily.

“Aha!”  With a triumphant flourish, Mustang yanked something large out from underneath the bed.  To Ed’s immense relief, a sizable bed pulled out, topped with a mattress already covered with sheets and blankets.

“Memory foam,” Mustang declared proudly.  “The pillows are feather.  And your luggage is at the foot, right there.”  He pointed to a compartment.  “We’ve already got the suits hanging up in the closet.”

“Thank you,” Ed breathed, though he wasn’t sure if it was to Mustang or some theoretical power watching out for him who he didn’t really believe in anyway.

Undressing was a quick affair, and he ignored the way that Mustang glanced at the raw, scarred skin at the automail port, tissue that was clearly relatively new, in comparison to the one on the thigh, which was much older.  Instead, he tugged on a t-shirt and his own pair of lounge pants, both black.  Professionalism.

Of course, when he went to hang up the suit jacket, he caught a glimpse of sparkles, and upon closer inspection, discovered that flecks of glitter had taken up residence in the fabric.

“Wonderful,” he muttered.

Clothes up, dressed, hair down, Ed finally flopped back onto the bed with a sigh.  He had to take a moment to revel in the bliss of the memory foam mattress, the feather pillows.

“Night, Mustang,” he murmured, settling under the covers as the bus began to move.

“You can call me Roy, you know,” came the reply, as Mustang—Roy—flicked off the light.  All right, that was polite of him.  “We’re all on a first name basis here.”

“Roy, then,” Ed murmured, but he barely had time to turn it around in his head before he was starting to drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! Alas, it's not likely to be the last, but I did want to write something for RoyEd Week of 2017, so here you are: "Is that what I think it is?"
> 
> I've also gone back through the last couple of chapters and had a friend beta, so I've made a few tweaks. I may make a few more in the upcoming days to this chapter, but wanted to get it out. Thanks so much to in-a-garden-astonished!

Though Ed wanted to be irritated at how comfortable the mattress had been, for the first time in years, he had slept peacefully through the night. He had to admit—begrudgingly—that this tour bus had impressive accommodations. It clearly paid to be a pop star. 

With a groan, ignoring the ache in his shoulder and thigh, he pushed himself into a sitting position. To his surprise, Roy was already awake, sitting cross-legged in the bed. He stared out the window of the bus, expression relaxed, a mug of coffee between his hands. 

Another begrudging admission: soft was an expression that looked good on Roy. 

“Morning,” Roy sing-songed gently, the smile not leaving his face as he turned to face Ed. 

Ed had to swallow, and he blamed the jolt in his chest on the slight bumpiness of the bus. He spotted the fake beauty mark on Roy’s face, still, though, which allowed him to summon back his irritation from yesterday. 

“Hey,” he grunted, rubbing at his eyes. “How much longer we got?” 

Roy shrugged. “Probably a few hours. Hungry?” 

“Always.” At the promise of food, Ed straightened immediately. His eyes landed on a tray of breakfast at the foot of Roy’s bed: a collection of fruit, three strips of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. He blinked. “For me?” 

Roy glanced over. “Oh. I mean, of course, if you’d like. Technically it was for me; they keep bringing it with my coffee, even though I tell them I’m not hungry. But you’re welcome to it. I’d just throw it away, otherwise.” 

Ed hesitated, but the thought of food going to waste left his stomach knotting. He snatched up the toast and shoved it into his mouth. 

He ate in silence, and Roy said nothing further, just sipped at his coffee. Eventually, only the bacon remained, and Ed eyed it warily. 

“Finished?” Roy murmured, and Ed glanced up to see that he was being watched. 

“I…” Ed swallowed. “You should eat _something_ , at least. Breakfast is the most important meal and all that.” 

“No, no. It’s yours. Don’t worry about it.” 

Ed shook his head, nudging the tray in Roy’s direction. “I, uh, don’t eat pork.” 

Roy tilted his head. “Oh. Well, like I said, I can just—” 

“Please don’t,” Ed burst out with, the knotting in his stomach back, and worse. His face had twisted a little, and when he glanced up, Roy was watching him, concerned. “I just… don’t like to see food wasted,” he finished, knowing how idiotic that sounded. He hesitated, then reached for the plate. “Sorry, never mind.” 

“No, no, it’s all right.” Roy scooped it up before Ed could, and Ed couldn’t bring himself to meet Roy’s eyes as he crunched away next to him. Guilting someone into eating felt ridiculous, but it was a little late to take it back now. 

“Do you mind if I ask why?” Roy asked after swallowing a mouthful, voice still pleasant, and Ed glanced back up to see him still watching Ed, a gentle smile on his face. 

Ed shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. “I just… have seen some shit, y’know? Little close to…” He shook his head. “Rather not talk about it.” 

“I’m sorry.” Roy finished the first slice of bacon. “I meant, why don’t you eat pork? Are you… Jewish?” he finished. 

Ed relaxed. “Oh. Well, I mean, sort of? Not practicing—my mom was, and my brother is, sort of, and my dad was Muslim, even if he didn’t really practice it much either. I’m not really religious. It’s just something we didn’t ever do, y’know?” He shrugged a little awkwardly. “So it’s still kind of something I’d rather not do.” 

“Fair enough.” Roy chomped down thoughtfully on another slice of the bacon, then eyed Ed. “I’m impressed.” 

Ed frowned slightly, watching him. “Impressed?” 

“Yes.” With a smirk, Roy licked his fingers, and Ed found himself swallowing. “I actually got you to tell me something about yourself.” 

With a roll of his eyes, he grabbed at a pillow, and only Roy’s quick defense of snatching up his mug of coffee saved him from it flying in his direction. 

— 

They reached their destination within the hour, which gave Ed time to dress himself properly and ensure that he was presentable. Really, a tour bus wasn’t that much worse than a cheap hotel room. 

He oversaw setup, leaving Roy in his room, and he could see that the security had already improved. Not perfect, as he kept having to point out certain weaknesses that could be taken advantage of, but the speed at which they tightened their gaps thoroughly impressed him. 

Ed eventually determined that things had been handled to his satisfaction and turned to head back into the bus. Roy hadn’t moved from where Ed had left him the last time, sulking after Ed had informed him that he would not be helping with setup, not until they had completed the security sweep. 

“You should be okay to go out now,” Ed began as Roy glanced up. “It’s not perfect, but this is a really bad venue for that.” He grimaced, wishing they had hired him earlier; he would have been able to choose spots that had fewer open holes. “But I’ll be sticking to you like glue, so I’ve got you.” 

Roy uncurled like a cat, smugness included, and Ed watched him warily, wondering why—until the bastard opened his mouth. 

“I’ve got no objections to that,” he purred, winking as he stood. “Glad you’ve warmed up to me.” 

Ed had to resist propping his hands on his hips and settled for crossing his arms instead, glaring. “Seriously? That’s all you have to say?” 

Roy shrugged, and Ed had no doubt that he _knew_ how good he looked in that stribbed tank with fabric so thin that Ed could see the tattoos underneath. Did Roy own _anything_ else? And that stupid beauty mark. 

On impulse, Ed reached for Roy’s face, sticking his thumb out to wipe the damn thing off. 

It didn’t move. 

Roy had frozen at the motion beyond a slight jerk of his head, which was weird enough in itself—if Ed had been thinking more reasonably for approximately point five seconds, he would have realized that the normal reaction would have been to jump away. But as Ed caught the slight eyebrow quirk and not-so-slight smirk, the reality of the goddamn trap he had walked into hit home, and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. 

“You thought it was fake, didn’t you?” Roy drawled, still not having shed that look of a cat—in fact, he looked even more like one now, with the mouse he had caught in his trap. 

“You—” Ed sputtered, then looked away. “…You had an eyelash there. I mean, glitter. Glittery eyelash. It was obnoxious. You have so much glitter; how do you even survive?” 

“ _Fabulously_ ,” Roy purred again, rolling his shoulders and then stretching. Ed crossed his arms again, a fierce scowl on his face. 

“Yeah, whatever. You ready?” 

“Always,” Roy hummed, and Ed just rolled his eyes, slipping past him and heading out into the common area of the bus. He pushed open the door, peering around—just in case—and then stepped out to inspect the area a little more. As they had parked the bus in a somewhat out-of-the-way spot, it meant more privacy, but also fewer people in general to keep an eye out for strangers. Also fewer people to sort through and ensure they belonged here, though, so it worked out. 

Ed then stepped out, turning to peer under the bus, and immediately spotted it. Had his stomach not already been plenty strong, it would have rebelled. 

A flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Roy stepping down the stairs, out of the bus. Attention divided, Ed immediately turned towards Roy, reaching out to herd him back into the bus. “Hey! Get back inside. I didn’t say you could come out yet—no, don’t look—!” 

But Roy had already turned, and his face had gone sheet white at the bundle of fur dangling from the side of the bus. 

A rabbit, Ed was pretty sure, had been butchered, the stomach sliced open and the guts ripped out and dangling down towards the ground. A torn piece of duct tape attached the tail to the bus, and above the gruesome sight, a scrawled, handwritten note read, _You should eat more, Roy._

“Inside,” Ed ordered again, taking another step towards Roy. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Roy asked, voice faint, and Ed thought he might be swaying a little on his feet. 

Throwing professionalism to the wind, Ed grabbed Roy’s wrists, forcibly turning him around so his back was to the sight. He didn’t grip hard enough to hurt, but he wasn’t about to let Roy pull away, either. 

“Look. For me to do my job, you have to actually _let_ me do that. It might not make sense to you, some of the shit—the things that I ask you to do, but I have a reason for everything. You need to listen to me.” 

Roy nodded slowly, but his eyes kept trying to flick back in the direction of the rabbit. Ed shook him gently to bring his attention back. 

“I have been eating less,” he finally said, voice small. 

Ed exhaled, eyes closing briefly. “Stress from this?” 

Roy nodded shakily, but then swallowed. “But this means he’s watching me. He knows my habits.” 

“I’m aware.” Ed pressed his lips together. It _also_ meant that, despite all of their precautions, the stalker had gotten through their perimeter anyway. Eyes landing on the nearest members of security, who were _supposed_ to be keeping out for this sort of thing, he turned to Roy. “Hey, listen. I’m gonna keep you safe, got it? You don’t have to worry.” 

Roy hesitated, but then nodded. “Thank you. But I don’t think he’s going to give up that easily.” 

The drawn expression on his face left a stab of guilt in Ed’s chest. Even after knowing him less than twenty-four hours, seeing Roy anything but content and carefree seemed…. wrong. 

“I know he won’t. But neither will I.” Seeing the way that Roy wrapped his arms around himself, Ed glanced around. “Hey, head back to your room for now, okay? I’m about to call the cops, and you won’t want to be here for that.” Without another word, he turned back to the security team and stormed in their direction. 

His sharp tone as he tore them a new one sent them running, and at Ed’s insistence, they had the police there in record time. They didn’t do much—there wasn’t really much _to_ do—but Ling would have contacts and be able to stick his fingers into any forensic evidence they managed to collect, if any. 

Everything had just begun to settle down again when Ed heard a terrified shout from inside the bus. 

“ _Ed!_ ” 

Ed immediately bolted around the bus to the door, drawing his sidearm as he wrenched it open and galloped up the steps. As he burst into the back room, gun drawn, Roy’s head jerked up, and he yelped and fell back against the head of the bed. “Oh my god—” 

Ignoring Roy’s alarm, Ed turned, sweeping the room, checking behind the door, then turned back to him. “Someone here?” At the shake of Roy’s head, he sighed, the tension beginning to ease, and holstered the gun. 

“I’m sorry,” Roy said, voice quiet, and he swallowed, then turned. He picked up a sheet of paper that seemed to have been folded, perhaps in the shape of a paper airplane, then held it out to Ed, who didn’t miss the way it trembled. “I… this came in through my window, I think.” 

Ed snatched it, quickly reading the bright red words in block lettering: _Don’t cry. We’ll be together soon._

As he turned and shot a sharp look at Roy, he could see that the eyeliner seemed to be a little smudged, and that his eyes shone suspiciously, just a little. Roy met Ed’s own, then his gaze slid away, and he stared at the floor. 

“I was freaking out a little,” he said, voice quiet, then glanced around, first up at the slightly cracked window, then back at the note. “But… not loudly. No one could have heard me. And the blinds are closed…” 

Ed bit back his instinctive response to say “apparently not”; that wasn’t particularly productive, and he knew that the moment he let his personal frustration get in the way of his job was the moment he would stop being able to do with it. Instead of dismissing, he nodded, then pressed a finger to his lips. 

“He probably managed to peer in through the window somehow,” he said, a little loudly, as he went to the closet and pulled out his briefcase again. Roy frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything, and Ed continued. “I’ll have a fucking word about firing those security clowns.” 

Roy drew back, and Ed thought he saw anger flash across his face, but as Ed pulled out the bug wand, his eyes widened in comprehension. 

Ed had swept the room the night before, but something had occurred to him, especially when he realized that someone had slipped the paper in through Roy’s window while police had been moments away. He turned to the tie clip that he had “forgotten” to put on, narrowed his eyes, and swept the wand over it. 

When it lit up, Ed knew he had found his culprit. He reached out and picked it up, face tight, and turned it over. A quick disassembly revealed that the flaming “M” had not just a bug, but an actual camera. 

“That’s… not a security camera,” Roy managed faintly, before Ed could even ask. “They aren’t supposed to do that. The clips.” 

“I figured,” Ed said grimly, reaching out to grab a paper towel and wrap it around the camera. “Show me your tech guy.” 

Kain Fuery, anxious but earnest, couldn’t tell Ed anything beyond ‘works off the local Wi-Fi,’ but promised to investigate all of the other devices still connected to the network, even if he had to manually hunt them down himself. Ed sent what information he could to Ling to see if there was more to be done, then alerted Riza. 

She inspected the clip carefully when he handed it over, newly de-cameraized as it was. “It’s one of ours, yes. We ordered this specifically when we decided to hire additional help; we don’t carry spares. How do you think he managed this?” 

Though she kept her tone cool and professional, her face composed—which Ed had to respect—he could see the slight tension in her jaw that betrayed her worry. “I’ve got a few ideas, but I want to make sure I get a chance to talk to Havoc about it first. In the meantime, make sure _everyone_ knows not to let anyone unless they have a badge, got it? That’s going to be more security’s job, but I wanted to let you know what would be coming.” 

“Appreciated,” she said with a curt nod. “Where is Roy? Do you want me to contact Havoc?” 

“In the bus. Fuery is with him. I swept the room again, and I set out two people to keep an eye out. And yeah. Let him know that it’s urgent.” 

— 

Havoc headed over, expression drawn and worried, and Ed already knew that he was about to start in on an apology. He lifted his hand, cutting him off before he could start. 

“Save it,” Ed said bluntly. “This is the worst you’ve had to deal with since starting this job, I imagine. You’ve got a lot to learn and not a lot of time to do it in, so focus on that instead of apologizing.” 

Havoc set his jaw. “You got it, boss. So what do we do?” 

Ed held up the clip, which Riza had returned with a stern glare and a reminder that he was to wear it at all times. “Riza told me that she ordered this specifically for me, so it’s possible that it’s the only one bugged. Still, I’m going to need you and your people to check the rest, as well as anywhere else you can think of. But I think I figured out how he’s pulling this off.” He pocketed the clip. 

“Yeah?” 

“I imagine he stole the package—how he knew about it, or managed it, I’m not sure yet. But it seems like he’s been using uniforms to get around. Mailman, to deliver the bug. Venue worker, to hang the rabbit.” 

“And we just had this place crawlin’ with cops,” Havoc finished. 

“Exactly.” 

“Christ.” Havoc ran his fingers through his close-cropped blond hair, sounding very Southern. “So tell the folks to keep an eye out for anyone they don’t immediately recognize, for one.” 

Ed nodded, pleased that Havoc had already adapted to this new scenario. “And verify _anyone_ who tries to come onto the restricted property. Don’t just check badges; call the post office or police department.” 

“Absolutely.” Havoc grimaced. “You must think me some kinda moron. Can’t believe this happened.” 

Ed crossed his arms, leaning back and watching him. “You thought this was your average crazy. This isn’t really your usual; it’s mine. And most importantly, he hasn’t been able to get his hands on Roy or anyone else. So you’ve done that, which is what matters. Anything else, everything else, it can be mitigated.” 

Havoc smiled crookedly over at him. “Thanks. Any idea how to catch this fucker, though?” 

Ed shrugged, frowning slightly as he thought. “That really shouldn’t be our job, but there hasn’t been any success on the police front, so we might have to improvise. Right now, if we tighten all of the gaps we find, completely cut off access, the stalker might get angry and desperate enough to slip up. He already seems two steps from sloppy; we just have to keep this up.” 

“Sucks,” Havoc muttered, and Ed allowed himself a small smile. 

“It does. But it’s all we can do.” 

— 

After checking on Roy—who whined about being locked in the bus and received a very unsympathetic reply from Ed—Ed headed out to case the growing crowd and question staff members about their observations earlier that day. Nothing immediately helpful came to light, but there were a few tidbits that could shape up into something useful, maybe. 

And then came the show. 

Ed had to resist the sore temptation to check inside the bus for someone else when Roy stepped out. The ‘I’ve just been fucked’ look was part of the persona, Ed reminded himself. 

But damn if Roy didn’t pull it off like an expert. 

To Ed’s immense relief, Roy didn’t pull anyone onstage that evening. To his immense _displeasure_ , after having to sit through hours of gyrating and prancing and unpleasantly loud noises, when he escorted Roy back to the bus, he found glitter on his suit _again._

“Can’t fucking believe this,” he muttered, smacking at the sleeve to no avail. He was going to need a twenty-pack of lint rollers, and he was going to make damn sure that it was going on Ling’s tab. 

“Come now,” Roy drawled from behind him. “It can’t be _that_ bad.” 

Ed whirled; hadn’t he _just_ been changing in the bathroom? For someone so unsubtle to be so sneaky and quiet… unnerved him. He compensated for his alarm by narrowing his eyes. “Yeah, it damn well can be.” 

Roy tilted his head, a bland smile on his face, but Ed thought he saw something a little steely behind those eyes. “Do you really hate the shows that much?” he asked, tone light. “I just want them to be fun, you know.” 

Ed rolled his shoulders in a shrug, then tugged off his suit jacket. “My job is to keep you safe, not critique your life.” 

Roy shrugged back, glancing away disinterestedly. “Still. If you don’t think it’s worth protecting, why bother?” 

Irritation, really _fucking_ unprofessional irritation, bubbled up in Ed’s chest. What the fuck did Mustang think he had been doing all day, if not working his ass off to keep him safe? 

“Because it’s my job,” Ed snapped, mouth twisting. 

“Your job. Of course.” Mustang shrugged again, voice dull, and turned to the bed, pulling the covers back. 

Ed couldn’t figure out why the movements left such a foul taste in his mouth. “What the fuck else were you expecting?” 

“Nothing, Edward.” Mustang still didn’t look over at him, and settled into bed, back facing Ed. “Good night.” 


End file.
